The Armageddon Affair
by Nyala Necheyev
Summary: Rise havoc, and let loose the dogs of war!" - When Waverly leaves for a week-long vacation, nothing is stopping Solo and Kuryakin from declaring a prank war on one another, which soon leads to a nightmarish armageddon.
1. Rise Havoc!

"....And so," Director Alexander Waverly was saying, and elderly man in his early sixties, "I shall be absent for about a week, and I am leaving you, Mr. Solo, in chare of the base until I return."

Special Agent Napoleon Solo smiled appreciatively, sneaking his straw-haired partner a significant, hazel-eyed expression that clearly said something to the effect of, 'Watch out!' The look that Illya Kuryakin gave back was one of clear defiance, daring him to try to force down his throat any of the things that Waverky got away with, like marooning them for days on a small inflated raft of the coast of Janaica, or sending both younger agents into a situation where, as the old man had clearly pointed out, both of them were most definitely expendable.

"Thank you, sir," Napoleon replied to Mr. Waverly as the director of Base One moved to exit is office, "It's an honor."

"Don't remind me," Waverly remarked dryly, "I'll see you both in a week." With that, the man passed over the threshhold of his office, leaving Napoleon Solo in charge of an entire baseful of agents all working for the U.N.C.L.E.

"So, Illya," said the dark-haired American, taking a seat on Waverly's spinning table and giving the floor a good kick, send him around and around in lazy circles around the peremeter of the table, "You're at my mercy now."

"Don't remind me," Illya retorted, echoing Waverly's parting statement and moving to sit in the director's chair, which was decidedly more comfortable than any of the others.

"Yeah, yeah," Napoleon rolled his eyes, giving the floor another good kick, though picking up his speed only fractionally, "So now that I've got the power, what are you going to do?"

Illya surveyed Napoleon, his senior only by three years and several inches in height, with skeptical blue eyes.

"I'm going to get out of New York before you kill me."

The next day, the first day of Agent Solo's potentially tyrannical reign, Illya Kuryakin got a gut feeling of absolute dread. Something bad was going to happen, he just knew it. It was as inevitable as sunrise and sunset, from his opinion. And Kuryakin's gut feelings were seldom wrong.

Much to the contrary, however, Illya's trip through the base was satisfactorily quiet, and the young Russian began to feel that maybe Napoleon's being in charge wouldn't be so bad after all. Entering the Director's Office, he came in to see Napoleon spinning around and around on that stupid tabletop again.

"Good morning, Illya," Napoleon beamed at the sight of his good friend, who kept vanishing out of sight at one-second intervals until he finally stopped the table's dizzying trip with one shiny, black-shoed foot, "How is everything so far? Okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Illya replied, a bit suspicious, "Why should it not be?"

"Ah, no reason, just checking," Napoleon answered back with a serne shrug, "It is my first day in the office, after all. Coffee?"

Illya noticed the steaming coffee pot on a small table in a corner of the office and nodded eagerly. "Yes, thank you," he said, moving to pour himself a cup of steaming hot elixir. As he did so, he was unable to notice the predatorial gleam that sprang into Napoleon's eye when he raised the cup to his mouth to drink.

HACK! COUGH! SPIT!

Illya gagged on the horrible taste that assaulted his tongue after he took a big sip of the stuff. Spluttering, he grabbed another cup, filled it with water from the cooler, and swallowed it, hoping to wash out the taste before he turned on his American friend, who was now laughing hysterically.

"Salt!" Illya cried furiously, "You put salt in the coffee!"

Napoleon nodded with the glee of a successful serial killer. "I just couldn't resist, Illya...I'm sorry..."

But Illya Kuryakin wasn't in quite a forgiving mood. Slamming the now empty cup of water on the table beside the cup of spoiled coffe, the Russian vowed, "You'll regret this!" and stormed out of the office.

Next up - Illya's revenge!


	2. The Russian's Revenge

About thirty minutes after Napoleon's cruel prank on the poor Russian, the brand new director was jolted out of his peaceful reverie when a sharp crack and a BANG!!! split the air, ruining any hope of a peaceful afternoon on base. Throwing the magazine he'd been looking at discreetly into a box with all the other magazines that "weren't his", Napoleon Solo lept to his feet and bolted out of his office to see where and how bad the bomb had been. Turning the corner, Napoleon skidded to a halt as he came upon a very...powdery scene.

The entire corridor and its inhabitants had turned a shocking white, covered all over with a fine mist of what looked to be common all-purpose flour. A young blonde, now a very powdery pale, suddenly began to giggle softly at the site of herself and her fellow agents. Before too long, the rest of the victims had commence to see the funny side in their situation, helping to dust the flour off themselves and their neighbor as everyone, including Napoleon himself, wondered how on Earth a flour bomb had gotten inside the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters.

Shaking his head in confusion, Napoleon turned around and started to head back to his office. Opening the door to his office, the special agent was startled to hear another earsplitting crack and a BANG!!! not three feet in front of him. Napoleon's eyes remained shut tight as a blast of powdery stuff splattered his face and clothing, afraid to look at the mess that the second bomb had created in Waverly's office he knew had to be there.

"Oh no..."

Licking his lips nervously, Napoleon realized something else about the bomb - something even worse than it being in Waverly's office.

"Oh NO!" he cried dismally. The powdery stuff, unlike the bomb in the hallway, had been composed this time of very fine, very sweet powdered sugar - potentially problematic, as powdered sugar tended to melt at the slightest touch of heat or liquid.

Stepping into a Winter Wonder-office, Napoleon looked down as his foot crunched on something metal.

He had just stepped on the shattered fragments of a small coffee tin, obviously from somewhere in the Soviet Union, decorated with Russian characters advertising the former grounds' goodness...and lack of salt.

"ILLYA!!!!"

Napoleon looked out of the office just in time to see a yellow-haired, blue-eyed countenance dart out of sight behind a hall corner.

Murderous rage smoldering in the acting director's hazel eyes, Napoleon Solo sat down in the Director's Chair, plotting his next move to attack.

This was war.

Next - Napoleon Strikes Back!


	3. Smoke And WHAT?

The next day when Illya entered the base, he was overcome with a slight feeling of dread. He knew that going into that office after what he'd done yesterday would show a certain amount of chutzpah, but what was the worst thing that could happen? Napoleon putting salt in his coffee again? He'd live.

Moving down the corridor towards the Director's Office, Illya frowned slightly at the lack of noise coming from the room. He slowly and carefully turned the knob….

A sudden shrill whistle pierced the air as earsplitting pops and cracks sounded all over the blond agent. In no time at all, poor Illya had been surrounded by smoke as purple, pink, red and green sparkles flew all around him. The terrified Russian, not about to make out was going on around him, gave a frightened yelp, which came out as some odd-sounding bleat, and as the smoke and colors dissipated, Illya could hear his friend's sadistic laughter from the director's chair. It was this that pulled Illya back together, along with his anger at Napoleon for such a stupid trick. Standing there in the doorway of the Director's Office, which had been cleaned last night, the Russian glared at the acting director.

"Good morning, Illya," Solo grinned cruelly, "Care for a cup of coffee?"

Illya Kuryakin didn't even deign to respond, turning on his heel and storming back down the corridor, seething with fury.

Fireworks. It was a stupid, childish prank, something he should have expected from someone like Napoleon. But how to get back at him? He couldn't use the flour bombs again. Napoleon would be expecting that.

As he passed by the base laboratory, he paused as a thought struck him.

It was simple. All he needed was to make sure Napoleon wasn't in the office when he did it…

With a sly smirk, Illya opened the door and entered the laboratory to get supplies.


	4. KABOOM, splat!

When Napoleon came back after having met a very pretty girl for lunch, he frowned slightly as he noticed the small crowd standing aghast outside his office door. The door was open for some reason, and Illya was nowhere to be seen. Fearing the worst, Napoleon hurried over to see what it was that had caught the attention of what seemed like every UNCLE agent in the base. Pushing through the crowd, Solo stopped and stared, gawking at the strange, awkward scene inside.

The entire office had been splattered from ceiling to floor in black ink, the remainders of an exploded vodka bottle on the floor. Glass fragments had somehow been propelled so fast that they had actually managed to bury themselves into the concrete-based walls of the office, leaving it a very hazardous place to walk into.

"Illya…" Napoleon growled under his breath. What the hell did the Russian have against his office?!

--

That night, Napoleon called up an old acquaintance of his, one Special Agent Erin Tucker, who was now working for the FBI.

"A glass bomb!" she laughed in recognition, "I remember those from A & M! They're tricky little buggers, and dangerous at that, but all it takes is baking soda, vinegar and an ink cartridge in a bottle."

"Look," Napoleon said sharply, "Can you help me here? The guy's a menace!"

"Okay, Solo," Erin said, "This may seem a bit stupid, but it works…"

-

SO to be continued!


	5. Here Comes Trouble!

That morning, Illya arrived in the Director's office to meet a very penitent-looking Napoleon.

"Hello, Illya," Said his friend, who was holding a mug of coffee that he offered to Illya - as an offering of peace, perhaps?

"Hello, Napoleon..." Illya replied warily, not sipping the coffee at all, "What is it today? A tack in my chair? A booby trapped doorway?"

Napoleon shook his head at each suggestion.

"No, no, no, Illya," he said calmly, "I want to make peace. I'm sick of fighting. We're friends, and, I mean, come on, is this any way for two adults, let alone a director -"

"Acting director," Illya corrected him.

"-And a number two in UNCLE to be behaving?" Napoleon finished, ignoring Illya's interruption. Stepping forward, Napoleon offered his hand to Illya.

Illya shook hands with Napoleon carefully, still unbeleiving. This was very un-Napoleonic behaviour. However, could it be possible that the American could have perhaps gotten his act together and decided to start acting like an adult?

"Alright," Illya said finally, "What are your terms of surrender?"

The Russian could see the twitch in Napoleon's eye when he termed their peace-making thus.

"Won't you sit down, Illya?" Napoleon asked him, gesturing toward a chair. With a relenting sigh, Illya Kuryakin took a seat and --

Fell on the floor. Hard. Into a pile of nuts, bolts, and leftover parts. Napoleon was leaning on the table, laughing as Illya got up, hardly able to gasp, "Oh, god, Illya, your face, you should have seen your face!"

The Russian turned tail and left the room, angry and sore - in more ways than one, unable to look at the sly devil Waverly had left in charge of his career.

Outside the office, Illya paused and leaned against the wall with a weary groan, rubbing a hand over his face in fatigue.

When would it end...?

Just then he stopped. That smell...it was the same smell he had caught on his way into the Director's Office...but he couldn't quite place it.

Moving down the corridor cautiously as could be, Illya did a double take as he passed a sleek, shiny surface - the Laboratory window. His reflection gawked back at him, covered in a fine layer of black machine grease where he had just rubbed his hand.

Making a quick dash to the washroom down the way to try to wash off the stinking substance, Illya indulged himself with several shady Russian curse words before leaving, his face slightly tinged with red from scrubbing so hard, and also from embarassment - who else had seen him walking down the corridor, looking like he'd just been caught in a head-on collision with a TNT stockpile in a machine parts shop?

--

That night, in his small apartment on 5th Avenue and West Bellfort, Illya dialed up an old friend he had worked with a couple times before. Surely, with her firey, red-headed nature and Boondocks background, Special Agent Erin Tucker would have some ideas to sic on his new enemy.

The phone rang twice, and then -

"'Lo?" Groaned a voice.

"Tucker, it's me, Kuryakin," Illya began, "Look, I need your help -"

"Kuryakin," said Erin grumpily, mispronouncing it 'Curry-Yackin', "Do you know what time it is?"

Kuryakin checked the clock with new enthusiasm. Sheepishly, he replied, "2:30AM."

"Now what the hell 're you doin' on ma phone at two-damn-thirty AM in the bloody mornin'?" Erin drawled indignantly, a bit thicker than usual.

"I-I'm sorry," Illya apologized, "I'll call back later -"

"No, no," said Erin, "You called me, now you're gonna spit it out. So spit it out, honey, 'fore I kill ya."

And spit it out Kuryakin did. All the young man's hate, frustration and rage came pouring out into every word as though a finger hand been pulled out of the great dam. Illya didn't know why, but Erin was someone who always gave one the feelings of freeness, as though you could really talk to her and get answers to your problems with out the usual mockery that came with. Usually, 'honey' would have immedeately turned Illya away from openness, but he knew that with Erin, it was merely a habitual gesture that was part of how Erin had been brought up and still was today.

"...And now I don't know what to do," he ended miserably, "I'm run dry."

Erin was silent for a moment.

"Okay, Illya, honey," she said, "I'ma give you a set of instructions, m'kay? And I want you to follow them to the letter..."

--

Up next - what happens now!? 


End file.
